Little Things
by slimandalittlebitfoxy
Summary: John takes Sherlock away from the city for a bit so they can enjoy a relaxing evening together, and do a bit of stargazing. Sherlock, however, isn't too keen on the idea. Johnlock fluff!


**The prompt "stargazing" was given to me on Tumblr and this is what I came up with. Reviews are fantastic! I hope you enjoy. :)**

**I do not own Sherlock or any of its characters. (Unfortunately!)**

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"Stargazing? _Really, John_?"

John had arranged a romantic evening for the two of them. He had even talked Mycroft into allowing him to borrow a vehicle so John could drive them around himself. He wanted to get out of the city for a bit and just have a calm, pleasant night with the man he loved.

But the man he loved would just not _shut the hell up._

"Sherlock. Can't you just appreciate the little things?"

"Yes. I like little things. Little details. Like the scuff on a shoe or a piece of lint on a lapel or a fleck of dirt on a pair of trousers or a fork placed three inches to the left of where it should be. But those are little _important_ things worthy of appreciation. Silly little shiny dots in the sky are hardly anything to be interested in. You know I have absolutely no concern for the solar system, so how could you possibly think this was a good idea?"

They were lying on a plush blanket that John had packed. He'd also made a nice, portable dinner that they'd enjoyed earlier. Now, John was lying with his head resting on the detective's chest, their legs tangled together. They were looking up at the sky; you could actually see the stars really well here, since they'd driven a ways away from the city. It was a bit chilly out, but their body heat kept eachother warm.

It would have been pleasant if Sherlock could just _close his mouth for five goddamn seconds._

John sat up, actually upset this time. He usually just played it off every time his lover criticized some kind of romantic gesture he made. I mean, he knew that the detective cared about him, in his strange, Sherlockian way. He wasn't normal. He didn't like showing sentiment, or maybe didn't know how. John understood that he didn't know how to react to the doctor's affection most of the time, either, so he just went on long rants about nothing.

But just this _once _John thought Sherlock could suffer through a few hours of sentiment. Just for him.

He thought wrong.

"Okay, Sherlock. Happy now? See? We'll go back to the flat. You can go tidy up your Mind Palace or go find some case or shoot the damn wall for all I bloody well care, alright?" John practically shouted, grabbing the basket that had held their dinner, but now only contained the empty plates and other remnants of their meal. He started tugging at the sheet impatiently, waiting for the now-sitting-up Sherlock to move so he could fold it up and put it back in the car.

For the first time all night, the detective was actually quiet. He was looking up at John's turbulent face...in apology?

"Sit," Sherlock said quietly. "Tell me about the stars."

The doctor's steely gaze faltered. "But you—you don't care."

"But you do, which, consequently, means that I do, too," Sherlock shrugged, laying back down. "What's that constellation?"

"That isn't even a constellation, actually. Nice try, though," John sighed, plopping back down next to him. "So, really. Why d'you want to care all of a sudden?"

"I don't like talking about things I don't know about. And it's...peculiar to have you know much more about something that I don't. It's frustrating and sometimes I wish I hadn't deleted all of those little things, because I've stopped appreciating them. I've only locked things that might help me in a case away.

"But, I've started locking other things away. Like the places I can touch to make you squirm," he gently pushed his cool hand under John's jumper, caressing a little circle at the small of his back. It did, indeed, make the doctor squirm. "And the things I can say to make you blush. And your favorite color and the way you like your tea and your favorite flavor jam and how you only put smilies in your texts when you're in a bad mood and trying to seem like everything is okay. Your sleep schedule and how you're more likely to have nightmares when it's raining. I've filed away each and every scar that I've kissed and touched and cataloged every freckle and perfect blemish. I've made note of your favorite crap telly tv show and how you lick your lips when you're nervous and what days you tend to wear your different jumpers or those blessed red pants that I like so very, _very_ much.

"It's highly unlikely that any of that would help me in a case, but I treat it as precisely as the things that do help me. When I met you, I was married to my work. Every thought I had went throught the process: 'Could this help me?' Yes? File away accordingly. No? Out you go. That was, until I met you. I started wanting to hoard all of those little things about you that I will never have the need for.

"You're...different," Sherlock paused, suddenly unsure of himself. "You're not a genius. You don't need me to tell you that. However, I've met proper geniuses and not even any of them have managed to completely captivate me like you have. You're a puzzle I'm not sure I'll ever be able to solve. Which is a nice challenge. And just rest assured, you'll never bore me, as you've voiced the fear several times. I just don't know how to deal with it sometimes so I just..._talk_. And talk and talk and talk."

John was speechless, unsure of how to respond. So he just laid back down and kissed the detective softly. Lovingly. Hoping it said enough.

"I—I don't know—" the smaller man started, looking into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock merely smiled slightly in response.

"Don't. Just tell me about the stars."

So that's just what John did.


End file.
